


Oh Death, Where Is Your Victory

by aliitvodeson



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brock Rumlow is an asshole, Canon-Typical Violence, HTP, HTP is it's own trigger warning, HYDRA Trash Party, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Non-Explicit Rape, Non-Explicit Sex, Non-Graphic Violence, Not Canon Compliant, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Pietro Maximoff Lives, Rape/Non-con Elements, Stockholm Syndrome, Unhappy Ending, but it ain't happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 10:38:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18715348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliitvodeson/pseuds/aliitvodeson
Summary: Brock Rumlow lives.He takes control of Hydra.He plans.-Pietro Maximoff dies.Hydra retrieves his body.He cries.-This is a knife in the back, a smile and a laugh, a boy in the grave and a man brought back to life. This is two men who should have been dead, and one is too young to know how the other hurts him. Used and abused and thrown away, and maybe this story has an ending, but it is not a happy ending, and it is not a good ending.This is not a happy story.





	Oh Death, Where Is Your Victory

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING:  
> Brock Rumlow is a fucking scumbag, who should have died slower.  
> This fic is HYDRA TRASH PARTY. It involves rape, torture, medical experimentation, brainwashing, and other shit. It's largely non-explicit, but it is here.  
> There is no happy ending (it's debatable if it's an ending at all).

Hydra didn’t just let experiments die. There was no end to these things, with them, no moment where the usefulness to Hydra ended. Brock knew this as well as anyone. He’d been burned and buried in the fall of the Triskelion, left for dead, crushed until hundreds of tons of rubble. When they pulled his body from the wreckage, it was a body, in truth, a corpse, with just a few scant minutes of life left within it. A corpse that Hydra has claimed, and rebuilt, and now he was something stronger, something new and something different and something that owed everything to Hydra in the end.

When they show him the video of the twins, show him the footage from Sokovia and the footage of how the bullets had pierced the body of the fast one, he knows what is needed.

Hydra does not end with death.

Strings are pulled. Favours called in. And a body that should be delivered to a grieving sister for a proper funeral is instead wheeled into a Hydra facility in an unmarked coffin.

The project takes weeks. He has other missions, other threads to follow, and he can not keep waiting for a project that might never work. Oh, he sees those little updates in his email folder, but he ignores them. It will work, as it did with him, or it won’t and that will be the end of that.

He comes back from a mission, and they show him to the cells, and there, on a simple cot, the boy lays.

He looks half dead.

He looks like an impossible miracle.

Once again, Hydra has twisted the boundaries of science until life itself was without end, and death had no victory. Brock retires to his room, and he reads the files for the first time, and he sees the reports of the changes that have been observed in what was once experiment number seventeen, but is now nothing but their only one left.

Pietro Maximoff is delivered into his office the next morning. He cries for his sister, demands to be let go, curses Brock until the end of the earth, and when he will not be quiet, Brock pins him against the desk, and says that if he can not keep himself silent, Brock will force him.

Pietro is silent when Brock fucks his ass, but his body shakes with silent tears, his hands gripping onto the side of the desk so hard that his palms bleed.

Brock watches Pietro during training in the day.

He fucks him bloody during the night.

Neither one of them get much sleep.

Pietro learns to dodge bullets, learns to pluck them from the air, running so fast that the dust from the gun does not touch his skin. Brock stands at the line and laughs when he fires, and when Pietro does not move fast enough, Brock laughs even harder. There are new scars to poke, new wounds to kiss, repeated lessons.

He makes Pietro ride him, as the boy gasps for air, Brock’s belt around his neck and the bruises on his pale skin look like a patchwork of stars.

He calls the boy beautiful, as he claims the air in his lungs.

Brock hunts down every last trace of the Winter Soldier, but the ghost is gone now, the ghost is nothing more than a dream, a memory, a flicker of his imagination as he stands on a street corner. Brock buys a bag of plums from a farmer, and lets the juice drip freely down his chin.

Pietro’s mind is never as fast as his body, but he learns commands under Brock’s rough hands, learns how to read the turn of the mission in the flicker of Brock’s eyes, to kill at the flick of Brock’s finger, to snap necks and crush eyes and to grin while he does it.

Brock sucks his cock  until it’s bone dry, wringing the last in a series of painful orgasms out of the boy as he cries for mercy, the night after he kills four people in under a second.

Pietro asks why once, and only once.

In the months since they were both brought back from the grave, in this short time they have both had together, the boy has rarely questioned what is happening to him. Brock broke him of that the first night, and it’s only in the quiet of a stole moment, the boy kneeling at his feet while Brock regards another string of coded messages from Rogers to Wilson, that Pietro tilts his head up and looks at Brock with those big blue eyes.

Why, he asks, and Brock looks at him when he says,

“Why not?”

Pietro rarely speaks at all after that.

It makes him a more perfect warrior. The sassy nature of the boy had died in the grave, along with whatever strange connection he had with his sister, and Brock does not more it’s death. A man stands in the place of that boy, a man with rough hands and cold eyes and a silent mouth. He runs faster than they can measure, faster than time itself it seems some days, and he no longer calls out in his sleep for his sister.

Brock begins to look elsewhere.

If the Winter Soldier is a ghost story, salted and burned and banished forever, then the Avengers are the rising monster in the night. But every monster has a weakness, a knife to twist in it’s back, an origin story that will be it’s end. The commended mother, crying for her drowned children. The robber with no head who waits for a lover. The shadow man come to take away naughty children in the night.

The Avengers are a monster, but Brock has part of their origin story in his bed, and a knife not used is a knife wasted and broken and thrown away.

He plans.

Pietro sits between his legs, his head on Brock’s thigh and his eyes closed in peace. Brock pets his hair, and stares at a blank wall, and he plans for the future of Hydra. Death has lost it’s victory in them, but still the Avengers win, and still he will not let that stand.

The Avengers travel the world. They are a team again, or most of one, or maybe a new one. But there are members that matter to Brock, and they still go on missions. He contacts an angry mother in the States. A mourning brother in Egypt. A vengeful father in Sokovia.

All over the world, there are the lives the Avengers have touched and saved and burned and killed, and they can not run much longer.

Brock grabs Pietro by the neck, and cares not how the man still flinches when touched, and he kisses him like it will leave a brand upon the speedster’s lips. Brock laughs, and ruffles his hair, and slaps his ass where he’d used the knives on it the night before, to make Pietro jump from the still open wounds.

He leaves with Pietro’s blood under his fingernails.

Another mission.

Another lie.

Rogers finds him in the market, as civilians run for cover, punching him until the tangled mess of Brock’s face isn’t even a mess any more, is nothing but shattered meat. Brock laughs, and when he sees the witch standing behind Rogers, he presses his finger down on the button, and laughs all the more.

Brock looks her in the eyes, and he smiles, and the smile is the knife in his hand.

“Tell your brother-”

And that is all.

The last word from his lips.

She will doubt, and she will wonder, and she will search, and the Avengers will shatter as what she recovers turns on them like Brock’s perfect revenge. They will crumble under their own weight, and there will be nothing left but ashes, and a streak of blue.

He laughs.

He bursts into flame.

He dies, surrounded by the fire of the witch, with the taste of the speedster on his lips, and he laughs as he burns. Even Hydra can not delay death forever, it seems, death has a victory after all. That is the sting of the grave, and Brock goes willingly, because he’s brought someone else back, and Hydra will continue, and there is a speedster hidden away in some secret base who will forever carry the burn of Brock’s hands on his hips.

This is death, and this is victory, and this is a knife in the back that will twist and twist and twist until that very heart inside of the Avengers snaps.

Somewhere beyond the grave, Brock laughs.


End file.
